Oh, and the car.
Well, unfortunately, it had a major midlife crisis. Or shall we just say it bit the big one. See, Friday night on the way home from work...
No, wait.
I work in Portland. Downtown. I live in Vancouver. Another state. There are two bridges between Oregon and Washington in the Portland area that cross the Columbia River: the I-5 Bridge (old) and the Glenn Jackson Bridge (new). Now, if you live here and you had to pick the one place in the entire city where you would least want your car to up and crap out on you, it would be
on the middle of the I-5 bridge
See, the lanes are very, very narrow. No shoulders. No hedge room at all. No room to breathe. The bridge shakes with each passing car. It's a claustrophobic's worst nightmare. You're enclosed in a green steel cage that was recently rehabbed because it was known that an earthquake would leave it a mangled, twisted heap of greensculpturewithcars.
So to make a long "my worst nightmare come true" very short, my car up and died on the I-5 bridge. Right there. Yep. Just died.
Forty fricken' minutes for a tow truck to get there. Meanwhile, cars and semi trucks screeched to a halt behind my tiny red Mustang (its hazards blinking madly, of course), one after the other nearly slamming into me and sending me flying into the Columbia River. They'd then sit there, flashing their brights, honking wildly and flipping me off. Like, what? Did they think this was Candid Camera or something? Did they think I was doing this just to see what their reaction would be, that I was planning to start my engine any moment and continue on my merry way?
Some people's kids. I swear.
A tow truck, a cop car, a $95 tow, and a few escapades later, it's the next day. My car's in the shop. It's now Saturday. I'm at the rental car place, trying to get the dang car before I'm late for my hair appointment at the trendy place in Portland with the purple sparkly walls and effeminate male hairdressers with orange dredlocks. They serve Starbucks coffee in big purple mugs, so you can drink while they're messing with your head.
The girl at the counter had said on the phone that they were out of compacts. Meaning, of course, that I was not going to get off cheap. So I said fine. I'll shell out a ridiculous $37.99 + hidden fees daily for a midsize. I get there and the phone rings. She says yernotgonnabelievethisbut...
but what?
The midsize (my midsize, that is) was in a wreck or got somehow mangled and is unrentable. So, she says, you get a free upgrade.
I don't like the sound of that. I don't hear the word luxury in that sentence, so it is not good.
"How would you like a minivan for the price of a midsize?"
"A what?"
"No extra charge!"
"Holy shit. I don't want a minivan. I don't do minivans."
"Well, I'm afraid that's all we've got."
I can see a midlife crisis being forced upon me.
So, I'm driving this Sherman Tank around town. And it looks like it'll be for longer than I would have wanted. The car is dead. But, like the bionic man, it can be rebuilt.
They can fix it.
They have the technology.
And for the low, low price of only $4,300 to $4,800 they can give it a new long block!
Okay.
So it's not new.
It's a remanufactured long block.
Wow.
What a bargain!
Vroom, vroom...
Just shoot me now.
Life at 40 is off to a roaring start! ;-)
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